Addiction
by MoxieMayhem
Summary: Sherlock just wanted to see if the number really was Moriarty's. Oneshot. Prompt from Tumblr.


Disclaimer: I do not own the series or the characters used.

This was given to my on tumblr for a writing prompt:

_Sherlock/Jim, Sherlock deciding to phone him to see if it was really his number, leading into phone sex?_

Reviews are appreciated.

A cellphone turned over and over again between two nimble fingered hands. Every so often it was raised and pressed again Sherlock's chin in thought, blue eyes narrowing. Digits circled restlessly in his mind, bouncing off other ideas and remaining at the front of his attention.

Why would he give him his number? What would he gain from it? Then again, Jim Moriarty was untouchable so it wasn't like he could be hurt from giving his number. Sherlock tapped the phone against his lips once, twice, thrice and made the decision to flip it right side up and to punch in the digits.

He would never admit to holding his breath as the phone rang. It was picked up after the fourth ring and for a moment there was silence, just light breathing on the other end. Then that odd, throaty tone asked brusquely who was calling. Sherlock let out the breath that he hadn't been holding in and there was shrill laughter echoing in his ear.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm so glad you decided to call." Sherlock felt his mouth press into a firm, thin line.

"It seemed the polite thing to do." He said, doing his best to be casual. He couldn't help the feeling of dread and unease that was curling in his stomach like some tentacle creature trying to take hold. Ever since that meeting in the damned pool. Jim Moriarty wasn't a normal man. He wasn't predictable which meant he wasn't safe, even over the phone.

There was some more high-pitched and slightly raspy laughing and Sherlock almost hung up right then and there. The sound crawled over him, making him itch and squirm. There was a faint sound, like fabric brushing against fabric and the wet sound of someone carelessly wetting their lips. "Tell me Sherlock," The conversational falsetto dropped and suddenly it was silk and stone, grating and soothing in all the right ways and it sent an unwilling shiver down Sherlock's spine. He was too busy collecting his sanity to register what was asked of him.

"Pardon?"

More laughter, too high for a grown man and then that growling tone. "I asked you what had taken you so long." Sherlock was certain he had prattled something about being busy but wasn't paying attention to the excuses leaving his mouth. There was more shifting on the other line and some brushed against the phone, leading Sherlock to believe it was being switched to the opposite ear.

With a sigh, another question was posed. "What are you wearing?" Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and glared at it incredulously. He opened his mouth to complain but Jim was still talking. "I _was_ wearing these fabulous silk pajamas." Was. _Was._ "Are you wearing that purple shirt of yours? You know…the one that's too tight." A sigh and some rustling. Sherlock's mouth opened to retort with something that was sure to be witty but there was another sigh and he felt himself blush. "I'm so sad we only got to talk for such a short while, Sherlock." The 'ck' was popped from Jim's mouth sharply, mockingly. "I was so looking forward to getting to know you. Well," A reedy giggle "I already know you, don't I?"

Sherlock swallowed and chose to just listen.

"You're curious, too curious for your own good. You like to play the solitary martyr but you _need_ having people around you, fawning over you." There was heavy breathing on the other line, making every static for a moment. "You and I are aren't that different, Sherlock."

"That's where you're wrong, Moriarty." Sherlock almost hissed. "We aren't anything alike."

"Is that so?" The heavy breathing was back. "You get your high from chasing me." Sherlock clenched his jaw and stared at the wall across from him.

"You're addicted to me."

Sherlock didn't want to hear that, let alone believe that. Not any more than he wanted to believe that that oh so changeable voice was causing the heat that was creeping down his chest. Or that those rustling sounds and that heavy breathing conjured images (logical images. Deduced images) that made him shift uncomfortably because Sherlock's mind never stood still. What had started as an almost clinical mental image of Jim Moriarty lounging on his bed, sheet up his waist with a hand moving below had turned into something far more disturbing. And over active imagination, a mind that processes too quickly turned the image of that small, pale body writhing, hand moving back and forth methodically changed to those pretty, pouting lips wrapped around Sherlock, sucking and licking, slurping obscenely while laughing eyes glinted up at him dangerously.

Sherlock reached down and tried to subtly adjust himself, almost as if Moriarty was watching him with laughing eyes. Judging. Knowing.

"You're addicted." Jim sing-songed into his ear, slightly breathless. "and guess what…" The voice dropped even lower, a rough purr. "I'm addicted too." Blue eyes flicked to the door, instantly calculating how much time he would have. Having never been one with particularly good judgment, Sherlock was undoing his button and zip before his mind could catch up to his hand.

This didn't mean anything. It was physiological.

That was his mantra as he timed his strokes with Jim's breathing. The phone was adjusted on the consulting criminal's side and Sherlock could hear it. The steady stroke of a hand, the quiet, suppressed gasps. Sherlock adjusted to that rhythm without thinking, mashing the phone against the side of his face in a denied desperation.

"I'm going to find you." Someone said in a hoarse tone, edged with need. Was that his voice? No. It couldn't be. "I'm going to find you and stop you."

Gasps and an uneven chuckle. "Not if I find you first." There was a cold promise in the tone, an underlying current of threat. Sherlock gave a shiver. "You aren't going to win, Sherlock." His hand started to move faster. "I'm going to _destroy you._" The vow was followed by an almost inaudible whimper and the image of a pink, full lower lip caught between teeth, head thrown back and eyes closed flashed through Sherlock's mind. With an embarrassing, strangled sound (some hybrid groan and shout) Sherlock finished messily over his hand. Slumping back in his chair he barely noticed the hissing laughter and the low, guttural growl, the sound of a body thumping against bed sheets.

There was silence on the line for exactly 52 seconds before that ice tone was back. "I'm going to destroy you, Sherlock Holmes. Nice and slow. And you'll enjoy every minute of it."

A click. Silence.


End file.
